Blackness
by SGAFan
Summary: Missing Scene story for Tabula Rasa from John Sheppard's POV. That's all I'll say so I don't spoil anyone who hasn't seen it!


_Blackness_

_Missing Scene for Tabula Rasa_

Awareness returned. Slowly, he opened his eyes and groaned in quiet protest to the throbbing in his head. He looked around as confusion settled in. His mind was blank… and it had nothing to do with the side effects of whatever had landed him in this condition in the first place. He didn't know who he was, where he was, or what was happening to him. All he did know was that he needed to get free and find a way to protect himself. That much was instinctive… an intuition that was with him from the moment he awoke.

He tried to lift his hand but could barely move; the ropes securing him refusing to yield. Panic quickened his breaths, but he forced himself to keep a cool head. Glimpses of what he should know flashed through his mind. A short brunette woman, and an innate impulse to trust her, dominated those images. A strong sense of urgency followed. Something was critical, important…

… dangerous.

Again, his breathing quickened, but this time from adrenaline. His eyes darted around the dimly-lit walls that surrounded him and his gaze fell on a large window… a windshield, with chairs and instrument panels in front of it. It was a vehicle of some sort and, from the looks of it, not one that would be carelessly abandoned. He blinked hard as a flash of memories passed through him. _Space… flying… fighting…._ "Jumper," he whispered absently, not knowing what the word meant.

He twisted his wrists, grunting in frustration as the bonds held. Whoever had tied him up and left him here would certainly come back. He needed to be free by then.

Again, he looked around, his gaze passing over cases and equipment stowed securely in mesh nets above his head. Up there, he might find something useful, but with his hands tied to his feet, there was no way he could get up to find out. Frustration overshadowed the note of urgency within him, but only momentarily. Left with no other option, he resorted to the only tool he had. He looked down at the knot in the ropes, hunched over, grabbed it with his teeth and pulled.

His lips curled back as the tang of whatever was on the rope assaulted his mouth, but he held fast, shaking his head back and forth almost like a rabid dog as he twisted his wrists and fought against the bindings. The sense of danger, of urgency, that had plagued him since he woke refused to be silenced and its fire drove him: a sore jaw and teeth and a bad taste in his mouth were insignificant in comparison.

At last, he lifted his head, spitting out the end of the rope as the knot finally came free. He turned his wrists, moving his arms back and forth in rapid motions to loosen the coils enough for him finally to pull his hands free. Wasting no time, he reached down, unwound the rope from his feet and threw it aside as he stood.

Pulling boxes down from the nets, he searched for something… anything useful, each case cast aside as it failed to yield anything that fit the bill. When his search turned up a first aid kit, he paused. _Salt… water… pain!_ He squeezed his eyes shut, a moment of panic gripping him, before the feeling fled and the sense of danger within him returned to the simmering urgency that had plagued him since he woke. Dismissing the memory, he dropped the kit, ignoring the clatter as it hit the floor.

His hand closed on a small but heavy tan case. A smile crossing his face as he unlatched it, lifted the lid, and stared down at the guns and ammo. He set the case on the seat he'd recently vacated, grabbed one of the weapons… and paused. The cool, metal grip felt right in his hand; like it belonged there… like he was supposed to hold it. But at the same time, that rightness warred with a feeling of wrongness which left him puzzled. It was almost as if he knew he should carry the gun, but it didn't match the danger he felt within. He shook the feeling off and grabbed one of the clips. Danger was danger, and whatever it was, he knew he'd never meet it unarmed.

With an expertise born not from memories but from reflex, he loaded the weapon and grabbed two more clips for good measure, before he looked around. Armed, he could defend himself from danger, but at the moment he was trapped. There had to be a way out; he just had to find it.

He walked along the edge of the vehicle, running his hands over the smooth surface until he reached the end furthest from the window. His gaze narrowed. There was a distinct seam around the bulkhead that indicated it was much more than a wall. "Hatch," he muttered. His hand fell away from the seam and he glanced around until he spied a lever not far away. His gaze flicked back to the hatch for a moment, before returning to the lever. He reached out, pulled the handle forward and was rewarded with a reverberating hum as the hatch slowly lowered.

He braced one foot behind him and pulled his sidearm from its holster as the opening widened. Lifting the gun, he scanned the immediate area for danger before slowly walking down the ramp.

The light was failing as evening drew on. He pulled in a ragged breath as a sense of panic once more pressed against him. Where the hell was he? Who was he? What the hell was going on? He'd woken up tied up and locked up, but he couldn't remember who did it, when or why. He stood ready to defend himself, but he hadn't a clue what from, and somewhere deep inside, he knew that lack of knowledge could get him killed. Beyond that, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he also knew there was a way out… that there was something that could help him. He didn't know what it was or what threat it would help him handle – only that it existed.

A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. His head was pounding and he ached all over. Blinking rapidly a couple of times, he forced his mind to focus, to figure out what to do next.

His head snapped around as something rustled in the woods. Tightening his grip on his gun, he stepped off the ramp and backed up into the shadows next to the vehicle. He pressed his back hard against the cool hull and turned his head to watch as a giant of a man sporting dreadlocks and carrying two large plastic bags emerged from the woods at a run.

A dark smile, one of smug satisfaction, lifted the corner of his mouth as the dreadlocked man stopped and groaned in what sounded like frustration. Clearly, he was none too happy his prisoner had escaped.

The watching man reflexively turned his head away as the newcomer ran towards the vehicle and the hull reverberated with his steps as he charged up the ramp. Then another noise sparked recognition. . Somehow, he knew it was the sound of an energy weapon being powered up and it sent a renewed wave of adrenaline through him. His grip tightening on the sidearm in his right hand, he turned his head and watched intently as the dreadlocked man slowly walked down the ramp, his hands clasped tightly around an impressively-sized gun. Everything about him, from his gun to each of the careful but predatory steps he took, screamed danger to the silent observer. Here was a man to be reckoned with, in every sense of the word.

Leaning back against the hull, the watcher pursed his lips tightly. He might have a gun and the means to defend himself, but he knew without question that, with this man, that was no guarantee of victory. Drawing in a deep breath, he acted on the best advantage he had: surprise.

Stepping out from the shadows, he aimed his gun right at the dreadlocked man's head. Now he'd get answers: find out who he was, what was happening and how to combat the danger that he knew, without a doubt, he was knee deep in.

"Drop it."

_My thanks to TanaquiSGA not only for the prompt, but for giving this story a quick beta read for me. I've struggled with my muse lately, so I thought maybe setting aside my larger projects and writing some shorter stories would help me get back on track with writing. This story was a result of that._

_SGAFan_


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